Matthew Hughes (born 1949) is a Canadian author who writes science fiction under the name Matthew Hughes, crime fiction as Matt Hughes and media tie-ins as Hugh Matthews.
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A lifelong habit of being right also had the effect of diminishing one’s social appeal, especially among those who prefer to keep the bubble of their various illusions a safe distance from a needle-sharp and probing intelligence.
In any case”—he gestured at the car—“this vehicle has achieved a state of permanent inanimation.
When the Wheel turns, much that is impossible in the old phase becomes commonplace in the new.
It is as hugely irrelevant to us as the literary outpourings of a poet are to a bacterium living in his lower bowel. Indeed, to an even tinier mite living in the bacterium’s vacuole. It just doesn’t matter.
Also, there was a remarkable display of objects that primitive humanity had allegedly thrust through various parts of their bodies—some of them extremely sensitive—for decorative effect. I shuddered slightly at the thought: self-mutilation, though everyone’s right, had always taken me aback.
The commerciants of Olkney were renowned for their egalitarian spirit, judging rich and poor alike solely by the weight of their purses.
Life is a hopeless rear guard action against an overwhelming foe; still how can we not admire those who battle on regardless?
"He began to dream the dreams that always seduce a tyrant: powers beyond powers, worlds at his feet, whole realms bowing to his whims." "And the dreams occluded his faculties," I said. "It was ever thus, we may be thankful, else tyrants would never fall."
"This conversation would be more easily conducted," said Filidor, "if I had any notion of what you are talking about."
Have you considered the possibility that our standards as to what is important may differ?
"Knowledge can be a hindrance to right action," answered the little man. "There are those who hold that, if we but knew the full ramifications of even our least deeds, the ensuing concatenations of cause and effect would paralyze us with indecision."
"We all use the world, and are used by it," he said, after a moment. "Some of us are more aware than others of using and being used. It is our fortune to have fewer illusions."
"Isn't it obvious?" he answered. "No. It is so far from obvious that it has gone right through obscure, breezed past unfathomable and is now completely beyond the reach of my vocabulary."
"I have a plan." "What kind of plan?" "A daring and bold one," he said. "Is that wise?" "It has to be that kind of plan. It's that kind of cosmos."
Talking was only one of the uses to which Chalivire liked to put her large and loose-lipped mouth; another was filling it with the products of The Braid’s renowned kitchens.